


Can't Judge a Book

by Madame (McKay)



Series: The Monkees Soap Opera [8]
Category: The Monkees (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-15
Updated: 2017-05-15
Packaged: 2018-11-01 05:40:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 20,128
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10915467
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/McKay/pseuds/Madame
Summary: Isabel's grandmother disinherits Isabel; Mags proves to be an unexpected ally amid all the conflict; Isabel begins to think seriously about making some significant changes in her relationship with Mike.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Written in 1998.

Grumbling under her breath, Isabel dropped to her hands and knees next to her bed and, lifting the bedspread, peered beneath. Sure enough, a faint glint of gold shone against the hardwood floor--just out of arm's reach, of course.

With an aggravated sigh, she flopped onto her stomach and stretched her arm underneath the bed as far as it would go, her fingers scrabbling blindly for the elusive object, but it remained out of reach, and she was obliged to twist around until she was under the bed head-first and could actually see what she was looking for. Finally she closed her fingers around it, securing it in her palm as she began to wiggle out again.

"What in the _world_ are you doing?"

Letting out a startled yelp, she jumped up, knocking herself in the head against the sturdy bed frame.

"Ow! Son of a--" She cut off the expletive as she squirmed from beneath the bed and scrambled to her feet to see Mike standing in the doorway, watching her antics with a questioning look. "Make some noise next time, light foot," she snapped, rubbing the back of her head which still smarted from the blow.

"Sorry." He closed the door behind himself, ambled over to her and, nudging her hand out of the way, massaged her scalp gently. "So what _were_ you doing?"

"Looking for this," she replied, holding up the friendship ring he'd given her the first Christmas she'd spent with them and which she habitually wore on the fourth finger of her right hand. "I took it off before I got in the shower, and I dropped it trying to put it back on."

He took the ring from her, examining the simple claddagh design carefully. "I was wonderin if you ever took it off. I don't think I've seen you without it on."

"I like it," she said simply, giving a little shrug. "It means a lot to me."

"Oh?" Slipping the ring in his pocket, he wrapped his arms around her waist and pulled her close. "What does it mean?"

With a teasing smile, she raised up on her toes and linked her arms around his neck. "It means you're stuck with me until you take it back."

"Or you throw it at me again."

"I did _not_ throw it at you!" she exclaimed indignantly. "I threw it on the table next to the key you gave back."

"Must've been a different fight then," he replied, a light of mischief in his eyes. "I remember you throwin _something_ at me at some point."

"I wouldn't doubt it," she sniffed. "And you probably deserved it."

Laughing quietly, he leaned down and brushed a kiss against the corner of her mouth. "So why do you put up with me then?" he murmured against her lips just before closing in for a real kiss, one that made her knees go weak, and she had to tighten her grasp on him just to remain upright.

"Well, there's _one_ good reason right there," she said when they finally came up for air.

"Need more reasons?" Although his tone was light and teasing, the gleam in his eyes was intense enough to make her breath catch in her throat as she gazed up at him.

"I need a _lot_ of reasons."

He kissed her again, and she gave herself up to the moment, reveling in every exquisite sensation, aware that he had picked her up, aware of the mattress suddenly against her back, of the intimate position she found herself in, of his weight atop her. She was aware and willing--up to a point. Oddly enough it wasn't _him_ she was worried about taking things too far but herself! She knew from experience that he would stop the instant she showed any signs of hesitation--but those signs were slower in coming. She was beginning to care less and less about the edict that had been drummed into her head: Nice Girls don't. Indeed, she suspected that the only thing keeping her from Going All The Way was a fear of not being a Nice Girl anymore.

But that wasn't something she cared to think about at the moment; all she wanted to do was concentrate on him, on the endless kisses that were going straight to her head and making all coherant thought flee, on his warm hands caressing her skin, on the feel of his body against hers--

"Isabel! Isabel--open up! It's important!" This abrupt summons was accompanied by rapid pounding on her bedroom door, making it impossible for either of them to ignore the interruption.

"I'm gonna _kill_ her!" Isabel growled as Mike rolled away from her. "I've _told_ her not to bother me if the door's closed! This had better be life or death!"

Hauling herself upright, she tugged her blouse back into place and stomped over to the door, yanking it open with an ungracious snarl. "WHAT?!"

Mags stood outside, her green eyes wide and filled with alarm, and her entire face was cast in taut lines of tension. Wordlessly, she jerked her thumb over her shoulder; Isabel followed the gesture--and saw her grandmother not too far behind Mags, a gathering stormcloud on _her_ face.

"Gram!" Isabel gasped, hastily running her fingers through her hair and trying to smooth the front of her shirt as if that would somehow erase the evidence. "What are you _doing_ here?"

Gram didn't reply at once; instead, she turned a cool, steady gaze to the bedroom, taking in the sight, and Isabel cringed, feeling hot blood rush to her cheeks as she visualized the scene for herself: Mike, still lounging on her bed, obviously disheveled.

"I think the question is what are _you_ doing here, Mary Isabel?" Gram said at last, her lips thinned into a disapproving line.

"It's not--I mean--I--" she stammered, feeling unaccountably like a two-year-old caught stealing from the cookie jar. "It's not what you think."

"Oh?" There was a world of meaning in that single syllable, mostly sceptical.

"Yeah," came Mike's no-nonsense reply, and Isabel suddenly felt his comforting presence close behind her as he rested his hands on her shoulders in a clear show of support. "I don't care what you're thinkin. The truth is, there's a line, and I don't cross it."

"So you say."

"So I _mean_ ," he retorted. "It's not any of your business anyway. Isabel's over twenty-one, and what goes on between two adults is their own concern, not anyone else's."

As proud as she was that he was willing to stand up for her, Isabel had to repress a groan; to say her grandmother wasn't going to react well to his remark would be an understatement of Nesmithian proportions.

"I will _not_ be spoken to like that!" Gram huffed, drawing herself up to her full height and fixing him with a cold, daunting stare.

"Then don't talk to Isa like she's a kid," he replied.

Isabel couldn't see his face, but his tone was remarkably calm; however, she had no idea how long that would last under the full force of Gram's wrath. She felt him give her shoulders a squeeze as if to be reassuring, and she sagged against him a little in response, drawing strength from his presence, knowing her turn was next.

Suddenly ignoring him as if he were no longer there, Gram turned her icy glare on Isabel, and when she spoke again, her voice was hard and distantly polite as if she were addressing a mere acquaintance. 

"I have spoken to you before of the ill-advised nature of this match," she began, and although her outward demeanor was rigidly controlled, Isabel could see a fiery anger kindled in her eyes. "This person is not worthy of you, Mary Isabel. I knew from the start he would be a bad influence on you, and nothing has changed my mind--indeed, what I have seen here today only serves to reinforce that opinion. That you would allow him to speak to me with such insolence only proves the damage he has already done."

Isabel felt her entire body--her entire heart--grow cold at her grandmother's words; she wanted to speak, to refute what Gram was saying, but when she opened her mouth, no sound came out. Her breath was frozen in her lungs, the words trapped in her throat, threatening to suffocate her. Gram drew in a deep breath, curling her lip as if she were in the presence of something--or someone--distasteful before continuing.

"What I am about to say is for your own good. Perhaps it will make you see reason once more." She paused, and for an instant, Isabel thought she saw a flicker of doubt cross Gram's face, but it was quickly gone--if it was ever there at all. "You will leave this place, this house, this--person--now. Today. You will return home with me. Or you will no longer be welcome in my home or my family." 

Beside her, Mags sucked in a horrified breath; behind her, Mike clutched her shoulders tighter as he bellowed, "What?!" But all she could do was listen to the echo of Gram's words in her head, replaying them on an endless loop, hoping she would find that she'd misheard them somehow, that Gram hadn't really said such a thing, hadn't really made such a threat.

"Do you hear me, girl?" Gram barked, ignoring both Mike and Mags' insistant protestations. "You have a choice. You leave with me now, or you stay with him, but if you do, you will have nothing! I will not see you. I will not speak of you. You will be written out of my will and cut off without a dime. Do I make myself clear?"

"H-how could you do this to me?" Isabel asked, finding her voice at last. "How could you ask me to make a choice like that? It's _not_ a choice--it's a punishment either way I choose!"

"You would consider returning home with me a punishment?" Gram demanded angrily.

"I would consider being forced to leave Mike a punishment," she corrected softly. "An _unjust_ punishment since neither of us have done anything wrong."

"Nonetheless, you will have to choose," Gram replied, her tone inexorable. "Now."

Isabel stared blankly at the woman who had raised her since she was ten years old, feeling as if she was suddenly seeing a complete stranger. Never had she imagined that Gram would put her in such an untenable position. She was rigid, stern and conservative, yes--but Isabel had never thought she would be unfair.

There was no way she could choose between them...No way possible...Her mind shut down, and she felt as if she were a million miles away from the unfortunate girl standing there frozen in shock. 

And then Mike spoke up, his tone one of tight control. "Isabel can make her own decisions about her own life--" he began.

"Some decisions she's made!" Gram interrupted, her voice growing shrill. "Living in a shack that's falling down around her ears! Taking up with a bum who only wants to use her for her money! You're nothing but a lazy ne'er-do-well who calls himself a musician so he won't have to look for a _real_ job!"

Isabel closed her eyes and reached up to cover Mike's hands with her own, hoping to assure him wordlessly that she didn't share Gram's sentiment; if Gram had wanted to make things worse--to push his buttons--she couldn't have done any better if she'd planned it.

"Isabel may not have the heart to say this to you, but _I_ don't have that problem," he snapped, and Isabel felt his fingers digging into her flesh hard enough that she probably would have bruises, although she doubted he was aware of it himself. "Get out," he ordered tersely. "And don't come back until you can treat Isa with the respect she deserves. You want to disinherit her--fine! Do it. She's _my_ responsibility now. As soon as I can afford to marry her, I will, and I'll spend the rest of my life takin care of her-- _without_ makin her live up to any conditions."

Gram's eyes narrowed dangerously. "Mary Isabel, speak for yourself," she commanded.

Drawing on every ounce of strength she possessed, Isabel looked her grandmother straight in the eye. "Asking me to choose between you and Mike is unfair, and I won't do it. I love you both, and there's room in my life for both of you. I'm happy here, I have a good job and friends here, and I plan to stay here. If you remove yourself from my life because of that, it's your choice."

"Very well. It's done. You are not of my blood. I do not know you." Gram pronounced her judgment, then pivoted sharply and stalked out without a backwards glance. No one moved; no one scarcely dared breath until the door slammed shut behind her, the sound seeming to reverberate throughout the house.

"Oh, Izzy..." Mags breathed, her eyes filling with tears. "I'm so sorry..."

"Me too," Mike said quietly. "Are you okay?"

She laughed shakily as she turned to face him, slipping her arms around his waist and hugging him tight, feeling as if she didn't use him as support, she'd collapse. "No. No, can't say that I am." She let out a ragged sigh. "But it's her decision. She put me in an awful, unfair position. I did--what I had to do."

"It's _your_ life," he replied as he returned her embrace. "You've got the right to make your own choices about what you want to do."

"I know. It doesn't make this any easier, but I know." She leaned against him in silence for a moment, then tilted her head up to look directly at him. "Did you mean it?"

To his credit, he didn't pretend to misunderstand. "Wouldn't have said it if I didn't."

Mags took this opportunity to slip away, but Isabel scarcely noticed. "So...does this mean..." She paused, not wanting to come out and ask bluntly, but she didn't want to assume anything either. "I mean, are you asking--?"

"Not yet," he replied with a slight smile. "But I will. Like I said, I want to be able to support a family first."

Suddenly, he released her and stepped back a pace, digging in his pocket as she watched with growing curiosity. Holding up the ring between his thumb and forefinger, he gazed solemnly down at her and reached for her left hand; Isabel felt her heart constrict as she met his eyes and read the affection there, knowing he saw the same thing mirrored in hers.

"It's not an engagement ring," he told her quietly. "But I want you to wear it here from now on." And with that, he slipped the delicate gold band on the fourth finger of her left hand.

Fighting back the tears that stung her eyes, Isabel managed a watery smile. "You're assuming my answer is yes," she reminded him; she was teasing, but the look he gave her in response was grave.

"Is it?"

"Yes," she replied quickly. "Yesyesyes." She reached up and pulled him into a kiss, pouring everything she felt into it, letting him know without words how much his gesture had touched her.

Her heart felt as if it had been torn asunder by her grandmother's harsh judgment; she hadn't felt like an orphan as long as her grandmother was there for her, but now--now for the first time, she was truly alone. Without any family.

At least, not any family bound to her by ties of blood.

But she also knew she'd been accepted into another type of family entirely, one formed of mutual love, respect and trust--bonds of the heart, which she was beginning to think were the truest kind. Gram had repudiated her--but all she had to do was reach out, and Mike would be there to support her as much as she needed, as would Micky and Peter and Davy and even Mags.

As much as she hurt now, time would help her heal even if Gram never changed her mind, and most importantly, she wouldn't have to grieve alone.

~*~*~ 

On the edge of the horizon, the fading sun sent glittering flames across the surface of the ocean as the sky above melted into darkness; the gulls had hushed their squabbling and squawking and gone to roost for the night; up and down the beach, lights were beginning to flick on in the houses lined up behind the dunes. The breeze was beginning to take on a chill that made Isabel shiver as it wrapped around her, and she huddled closer to Mike for warmth now as well as comfort. He'd propped himself against one of the larger rocks clustered along the shore, and she'd curled up next to him, lying on her side and resting her head on his shoulder, trying to convince her body to relax even as her mind ran mad.

"You could always go talk to her after she's had time to cool off," he suggested quietly, and she lifted her head just enough to raise one eyebrow at him.

"I don't think so," she replied tartly, then nestled against his shoulder again.

He tapped the arm she'd draped across his stomach to get her attention, smiling knowingly down at her. "Is that your pride gettin in the way again?" he asked, a teasing note in his voice. They both knew _he_ had no right to throw stones at her for that.

"No," she sighed regretfully. "Not this time. I know Gram. When she makes up her mind about something, she makes the two of us look like weak-willed pushovers. Talking to her won't do any good." She paused, then added fiercely, "And I won't beg! That _is_ pride, but I don't care. I know what she wants me to do, but _her_ plans are not _my_ plans, and I won't live to please her!"

"So what does she want?"

Isabel released a long, slow breath, then untangled herself from him, shifting to sit cross-legged next to him. She reached down and sifted a handful of clean, white sand through her fingers, pausing to collect her thoughts before answering.

"She'd chosen a husband for me," she admitted, her voice low, almost low enough for the evening breeze to whisk it away, but Mike heard, and he sat up straight, obviously on full alert after _that_ revelation.

"Oh, _really_?" The deliberately exaggerated drawl oozed disdain. "Well, dumbass me. Here I thought we were livin in the twentieth century, not the twelfth."

She snickered, tossing him a mischievous grin over her shoulder. "Oh, it gets even better," she assured him, a ripple of amusement in her voice. "He's from a family with old money and even older blood, and I was supposed to marry him, have his children and allow him to be the bright new jewel in our family crown. That's what she _wanted_ \--"

"But she got me," he chuckled.

"But she got you," she agreed, twisting around so she could give him a fond look.

"So what's this guy like?"

"Worried, are you?" she teased, and he let out a derisive snort to tell her what he thought of _that_ notion. "Your opposite in every possible way," she said, smoothing her hand down the side of his face; he reached up and held her palm against his cheek for a moment, then pressed it briefly to his lips before releasing it again. "Rich, spoiled, selfish, barely a brain rattling around in that pointy head of his..." She trailed off, disgusted at the memories she had of the few dates she'd allowed herself to be talked into.

"And she wanted you to _marry_ this guy?" he asked, incredulous, and Isabel nodded grimly.

"He was under her thumb completely. She terrified him, and she knew she could control him. That's what she wanted." 

And _he_ in turn had tried to control _her_ which had led to a rather unpleasant confrontation which she had never told anyone about, especially not her grandmother. She didn't even care to mention it to Mike, knowing it would only upset him unecessarily.

"Didn't she care what _you_ want?"

"Yes and no," she sighed, staring out across the ocean without even seeing it. "She wants me to be happy, and she wants what's best for me--as long as it agrees with _her_ version of what's best for me."

"And the guys complain about _me_ likin to be in control," he muttered, coaxing a weary smile from Isabel.

"Compared to Gram, _you're_ mellow."

"Now _that_ is a freaky thought," he replied, and she laughed outright.

"I can't afford to be too judgmental," she admitted. "I'm at least as bad as you are--"

"Hey!"

"--but I'm not half as bad as she is." She paused, then added with a little grimace, "And I'm almost afraid to have kids because I'm scared I'll turn into her!"

"Nah. You'll be on your guard."

"I hope so..."

With a quiet chuckle, he scooted over and, stretching his long legs out on either side of her, wrapped his arms around her from behind and pulled her close. "You'll be a good mom," he assured her. "You won't repeat her mistakes." He paused, then she felt rather than heard him laughing as he added, "I won't _let_ you."

Isabel felt as if her lungs momentarily stopped working as the implications of his words sank in, and she sat frozen, shocked into silence.

"It's gettin late," he announced, giving her a quick squeeze before releasing her and scrambling to his feet. "We'd better go in before the temperature starts droppin." When she didn't immediately get up and follow him, he turned back with a quizzical look. "Are you comin?"

"Yeah..." she replied faintly, rising slowly and dusting the sand off her pants; he waited for her to finish, then as soon as she had reached him, he slipped his arm across her shoulders, letting his hand dangle in front of her, probably knowing she would capture it in her own as she always did. And she did, giving his fingers an extra squeeze in wordless thanks for his support throughout this horrible ordeal.

~*~*~ 

She immersed herself in work that evening, trying to push her grandmother's hateful words out of her head for a while, but even though she concentrated as hard as she could on the review, her mind was far too busy sorting through the tangle of emotions the encounter had caused.

The bad thing was that part of her felt guilty for not going with Gram, for not doing as she asked; after all, Gram had taken in her in and raised her. She owed Gram a lot, but did that extend to allowing Gram to dictate what she did, where she lived, whom she associtaed with?

Logically, she knew the answer was "no." But emotionally...Well, in that respect, she still felt like a frightened little girl who was being punished, and she wanted nothing more than to do whatever she could to make it right again.

Unfortunately, doing so would mean leaving her home, leaving her friends...leaving Mike. Was making peace with her only living relative worth that sacrifice?

She glanced up from the typewriter--which had been sitting silent for the better part of ten minutes while she stared blankly at it--over at the kitchen area where Mike was rummaging around in the cabinet for a can of cat food; Rosen and Gil had already been alerted to this activity and were "helping" by twining themselves around his legs and meowing pitifully as if they hadn't been fed in weeks.

As she watched, she saw him idly reach out with one hand to stroke Rosen's back and skritch behind Gil's ears as he sorted through the canned goods with the other until he found what he was looking for; straightening slowly to avoid stepping on or tripping over either of the cats, he got out the can opener, started opening the can--and promptly dropped it when Gil leapt up and landed right on his shoulder.

Amazingly enough, the combination of the clattering tin and Mike's startled yelp didn't serve to dislodge Gil in the the slightest, and Isabel burst out laughing at the sight of Mike and Gil literally nose-to-nose; Mike's expression was clearly one of shock and disbelief while Gil appeared mildly put out that his meal was going to be delayed since part of it was splattered all over the floor--a fact which Rosen took advantage of immediately.

"Sorry," she giggled. "I should've warned you. He's picked up that habit in the last week or so. I guess he likes to oversee to make sure the job's done right."

"Dang cat just about gave me a heart attack," he grumbled, reaching up to dislodge Gil from his shoulder, but Isabel shook her head.

"I wouldn't try it if I were you," she warned, and he shot her a sceptical look in return. "Don't say I didn't warn you," she added with a shrug, mentally washing her hands of all responsibility.

With another side-long glance at her, he grabbed Gil and tried to pull him off, but even across the room, she could tell the cat dug his claws deeper, through the shirt and probably into his flesh as well, judging from Mike's sharp hiss of pain.

"Okay, _fine_ ," he snapped, turning to look at the stubborn cat again. "Stay there, but don't expect any help from _me_." 

Gil stretched his neck just enough so that the tip of his nose touched Mike's for a moment, then he turned away again, visibly content with the way things had worked out, i.e. just the way he wanted them.

Fascinated by this little scene, Isabel continued to watch, and despite his threat, she noticed that he moved slower as if trying to make sure Gil didn't lose his balance, although there really wasn't any danger of that happening; of course, it could've been motivated purely out of self-interest since Gil wouldn't hesitate to dig in deep to keep himself in place if the need arose! But still the picture of Mike with a smug cat perched on his shoulder amused her to no end, and she had to clamp her lips together tight to keep from giggling.

But all amusement faded as she abruptly realized what a domestic scene this was. She was working--or trying to, anyway--he was in the kitchen, taking care of the pets, and they'd spent the entire evening like that. Immersed in their own projects--he'd been working on song lyrics before the cats beckoned--but together, enjoying each other's company without needing to be entertained.

Was this how it would be if they married?

But according to what he'd said today, it wasn't a question of "if" but of "when."

She'd committed the rest of her life to this man. Was that what she really wanted? Was she willing to sacrifice her family ties to be with him? Was he worth it?

As if sensing her thoughts were directed at him, Mike glanced up, and she had to smile: he and Gil were both regarding her with the same somberly pleasant expression. Then Mike winked and returned to the task of opening another can of food since Rosen had managed to polish off the first by himself in record time.

In that moment, she knew the answers to all her questions was "yes."

The decision to sever the family ties had been Gram's, not hers. It wasn't what she wanted, but she refused to be manipulated by anyone--even her own grandmother--and she wouldn't be forced into making a choice between the two of them. It wasn't right or fair, and she resented Gram for putting her in that position in the first place; one didn't ask such things of those they loved. One didn't put conditions or expectations on love.

"You're thinkin about your grandmother again, aren't you?"

Gil had abandoned Mike as soon as the food was in his bowl, leaving Mike free to approach her, which he did, leaning against the edge of her desk as he watched her, concern lurking in the depths of his eyes.

She sighed, then raised her gaze to meet his and nodded. "I'm disappointed in her," she admitted. "She's allowing her prejudices and desire for control to over-rule her compassion, which says nothing good about her." She paused, then added, "I thought she was a better person than that."

He remained silent for a time, and she could tell by the look on his face that he was trying to be tactful about what he said but having a hard time of it.

"Maybe she is," he replied simply. "Maybe once she cools down and thinks about it, she'll realize she made a mistake."

"Maybe," Isabel conceded. "The question then is will she _admit_ it?"

"She's the only one who can answer that," he said pragmatically. "It's out of your hands, Mary-belle, much as you may hate it."

"I know," she sighed, raking her fingers through her hair restlessly. "I keep telling myself that she made her choice, but..." 

"But you miss her."

It wasn't a question, but she answered him anyway. "I miss her. But if she never relents, I'll have to mourn her loss and move on. She's chosen to make herself my past." She rested her hand on his knee, letting the slight contact strengthen and sustain her. "My future is with you."

~*~*~ 

Staring out across the dunes, Isabel leaned against the rail of her balcony and sighed; behind her, the typewriter sat silent, the unfinished article rebuking her, but she was incapable of returning to it. Too much was preying on her mind, and she had hoped the peaceful sight and sound of the ocean might help her pull her thoughts together.

She knew there was nothing she could do about her grandmother--she would simply have to accept the situation as it was and see what developed in the future--but as far as things were concerned between herself and Mike...Well, that was something entirely different.

The idea of increasing the level of intimacy they shared had been forming for quite some time--months actually. Then seeing him coming out of the shower half-naked and having such a powerful reaction to that sight had made her realize she was growing more and more ready to take that step. But was she completely ready? And if she was, what should she do about it? How did she find out what to expect? She knew the basic, technical aspects of what happened, but as far as how to do it--well, she was clueless.

What was worse, there were only a limited number of people she could talk to about this, and she desperately needed to sound this issue out to someone. She felt guilty for even considering it, afraid giving in before they got married would turn her into a fallen woman somehow. On the other hand, Mike had made a strong emotional committment to her, and she was ready to make an equally strong committment to him.

But who to confide in? It had to be someone who actually knew something about sex, which left Mags out. She had led a more sheltered life than Isabel had, and she barely knew the mechanics of the act.

Mike?

No!

She wasn't ready for him to know she was thinking along those lines yet.

Peter? Davy?

No. Davy was a good friend, but she didn't feel comfortable talking to him about this particular subject, and as for Peter...Well, somehow she just didn't even think of him and sex as belonging in the same sentence. He seemed too innocent, too naive, and even though she knew she was probably fooling herself to think he hadn't had at least some amount of experience with girls, she didn't want to talk about this with _him_ either.

That left only one other person...

~*~*~ 

Micky hummed tunelessly as he bent over the engine of Isabel's car, only vaguely aware that she had come outside to join him until she spoke.

"Thanks, Micky--I really appreciate this," she said, and he glanced up to see her leaning one hip against the side of the car, arms crossed as she watched him work.

"No problem--just a loose wire." He shrugged and returned to the job at hand, engrossed in the task despite its simplicity. His primary love was music, of course, but he had the heart of a born tinkerer as well, and he enjoyed messing with car engines almost as much as he enjoyed experimenting with chemicals.

"Micky--"

Later he supposed that if he'd been paying attention to her tone--that hesitant, questioning tone that said she was broaching a somewhat serious topic--he woudn't have been taken so off-guard.

But he hadn't been, thus he nearly gave himself a concussion when he jerked upright like a puppet on a string at her too-casual, "What do you think of girls who go all the way?"

He let out a yelp as the back of his head impacted with the hood of the car, and he backed away from the engine block hastily, rubbing his injured head with one hand as he gaped wordlessly at her.

"Are you okay?" she asked, her huge brown eyes growing even wider with concern. "I didn't mean to--"

"I'm fine," he interrupted, far more interested in her question than his own injuries at the moment. "Did you just ask me what I _thought_ you just asked me?"

"I asked what you think of girls who go all the way," she repeated, suddenly studying her fingernails with much more care and attention than they really deserved.

"That's what I thought you asked me..."

She didn't reply--didn't so much as look up at him--and he stared at her in disbelief.

"What in the _world_ do you want to know a thing like that--" 

Two plus two equals

"--for?"

Micky shut his mouth abruptly as the pieces fell into place, and he felt heat rushing into his face--and all coherant thought rushing from his brain.

Why was she asking _him_? Why couldn't she talk to someone else about-- _this_?

But he was also pleased that out of all of them, she trusted him enough to bring up such personal topics, and he determined to help her out as best he could just as if she really _were_ his sister. Fishing a rag out of a pocket of his grungy work cover-alls, he wiped the grease from his hands, stalling as he tried to think of how to reply.

"Well..." he said at last, swiping the rag across his face. He always managed to smudge grease on his nose or cheeks, mainly because they always decided to start itching right after he'd begun the messiest part of the job. "I think it depends on the girl."

There. That was a good answer. Now he just hoped she wouldn't ask him to explain what he meant by it.

She glanced up, skewering him with a look, and he knew he wasn't going to get off that easily.

"What do you mean?" she asked, and he groaned silently.

"Well--um--" he faltered, not knowing how to put things politely, in a way that wouldn't offend or shock her.

If he and the others were talking about this kind of thing, no problem! Like every other guy in the world, they'd spent plenty of time sitting around talking about girls; none of them were innocent babes in the woods, and they had plenty of stories to tell. Davy could get downright gutter-mouthed at times, and Micky had been unable to look at a doughnut without giggling for a long time after hearing Mike's story of a brief long-past encounter, delivered in his usual straight-faced, understated style.

"I mean that--that if the girl is--you know--" he floundered for a way to put it tactfully.

"A slut?" Isabel provided helpfully, her face a mask of innocence that was too perfect to be real, and Micky laughed, relieved that perhaps this wouldn't be as difficult as he'd thought.

"Yeah," he nodded. "That's one thing. But if she's not and she decides to--you know--with one guy, and they're in love, and it looks like they're going to have a forever kind of thing anyway, well, that's different."

"She's not a bad girl?" she asked softly, doubt lingering in her eyes as she watched him, no doubt analyzing every nuance of his reaction to make sure he was being totally honest with her--which he was. "I mean, nice girls aren't supposed to..." she trailed off, a faint tinge of pink coloring her cheeks.

"Look..." Micky glanced around uneasily. There was no such thing as privacy at either her house or their Pad, and he doubted she wanted any other ears picking up on this conversation. "Why don't we go somewhere else to talk about this? Somebody could walk out any time--"

"Good idea!" she interrupted hastily, alarm suffusing her features as if that thought hadn't occured to her yet.

Grinning and shaking his head, he captured her hand and led her out to the beach, heading for a secluded little cove among the rocks where they could talk freely without being overheard or easily spotted. Once there, he threw himself down on the sand, stretching his legs out in front of him and leaning back on his hands as he waited for her to settle with dainty finickiness next to him.

"So have you talked to Mike about this yet?" Micky asked bluntly, feeling a pang of concern. He didn't consider Mike the type to pressure a girl, but if he was trying to rush Izzy into doing something she wasn't ready for, they were going to have a long talk, he thought grimly. "He's not pushing you, is he?"

"Oh, no!" She shook her head vehemently. "No, he hasn't said a word. This is all _my_ idea!" she exclaimed, and then a crimson flush spread all the way up to her hairline and down to her neck as she realized what she'd just admitted. "I'm awful, aren't I?" she whispered. "I shouldn't think about things like that--"

"Why not?" Micky countered. " _Guys_ do, and girls are just as human as we are. Look, Izzy--" He continued in a gentler tone as he reached out and patted her shoulder. "If you're worried this is going to change how we feel about you, don't, okay? Me, Peter and Davy already know what kind of person you are, and no one who really cares about you is going to put you down for it, especially if they know how you feel about Mike."

She bit her lip, looking unconvinced, and he squeezed her shoulder reassuringly.

"Besides, that kind of thing is between you and Mike," he continued. "It's nobody else's business."

"Yes, but people _make_ it their business sometimes, and they judge..." She trailed off, confusion still evident in her eyes.

"Why do you care?" he countered breezily. "It's _your_ life. Do what you want. If you ask me," he said, regarding her with his best stern look, "I think you're just letting yourself get hung up on that whole Nice Girl thing. But this won't change the fact that you're a good person."

"It _will_ change me, though," she said, almost more to herself than to him.

"Yeah," he agreed, nodding slowly. "It's weird. It won't change anything about you or between you and Mike, but at the same time, it'll change everything."

"How do you mean?" she asked, a slight frown forming between her brows.

"It's hard to explain," he said, giving a little shrug. "You'll know what I mean when it happens, but I can't put it in words." He paused, then added, "So what's got you thinking about this anyway? I always thought you were the wait-til-you're-married type."

"Oh, thanks for making me feel _so_ much better," she grumbled, tossing him an irritated look.

"Sorry--you know what I mean, though."

"I know," she answered softly. "Part of it is that it's going to be a long time before we're legally married."

"Legally? As opposed to any _other_ kind of marriage?" he asked, flashing her a teasing grin.

"Well, that's the other part," she said, smiling slightly. "This whole thing with Gram has made me do a lot of thinking the past few days, not just about her but about me and Mike as well. I realized that I feel married to him already, so what difference is a little piece of paper going to make except to say that what I feel is finally validated in the eyes of the law?"

Micky's eyebrows climbed into his hairline as he digested that bit of information. "Good point," he replied, unable to come up with anything more profound to say in response.

"But I'm scared, Micky," she admitted in a low voice, staring at her hands, which she held clasped tightly together in her lap.

"Scared?" He sat up straight, watching her carefully. "Of what?" 

"Of...Of...Well...Of doing it!" she blurted out, her face turning scarlet again. "I mean, I don't know how! I don't know that much about it at all, and I don't want to do anything wrong--"

"Hold it!" He held up both hands and shook his head vehemently. "Stop right there! Don't say another word--please! Izzy, I love you like a sister, but my brotherly responsibilities do _not_ extend to bird-and-bee discussions."

"Well, who am I supposed to ask, then?" she retorted with asperity. "Mags knows less than _I_ do--" She cut herself off and chuckled softly. "Which is pretty amazing, actually. And Gram wasn't any help when she talked about it. She made the Spanish Inquisition sound like a cake walk in comparison."

"Oh, boy..." Micky groaned and dropped his head in his hands. "Why can't you talk to _Mike_ about this?"

" _What_?!" Her entire being radiated indignation. "Are you _kidding_? If I asked _him_ about it, then he'd know I want to do it!"

"But you _do_!"

"But _he_ doesn't need to know that!"

"Well, it would help if he was in the same room at the time!"

"I know _that_ much, thank you," she replied, drawing herself up with icy dignity. "I'm just--I'm just not ready to talk to him about it. Not until I've got things clearer in my own head. I don't want to--to lead him on or anything."

"Yeah, I can understand that," he said softly. "But I still think you oughta tell him you're thinking about it. I mean, it's important to him too." He paused, then reached out and captured her hand, squeezing it briefly. "And don't worry. It's not like he'll expect you to know what you're doing."

"I'm glad _one_ of us does..." she muttered, and Micky laughed.

"It'll be okay," he assured her. "Just don't let him near any doughnuts."

~*~*~ 

Later that afternoon, Isabel was still mulling over Micky's advice when she heard an unfamiliar knock on her door. She knew immediately it wasn't anyone from next door; Mike would've simply walked in, and the others had distinctive knocks that she'd learned to recognize. 

Frowning a little as she tried to figure out who would visit either her or Mags--and hoping it wasn't a door-to-door salesman--she hurried to the door, opened it--and took an involuntary step back, recoiling from this sudden, unexpected and unwanted intrusion from the past.

"Lindsay!" she gasped. "What are you doing here?"

Lindsay Wythe-Farthingill loomed in the doorway, his thin lips curved into a taunting smile.

"Your grandmother sent me to check up on you," he replied, his tone turning what on the surface was a casual statement into a threat. "She's concerned about your lifestyle, you know. Your friends," he sneered, and Isabel felt her cheeks stinging with angry heat, knowing Gram must have told Lindsay all about Mike, holding him up for ridicule no doubt.

"I don't _need_ checking up on," she retorted frostily. "Especially not from _you_."

"Mrs. Evans doesn't seem to think so." Lindsay shoved his way past her into the house, and she stalked after him, seething with fury. 

"I didn't invite you in," she reminded him, but his only reply was derisive laughter.

"Your grandmother," he said pointedly, "seems to think that you've allowed your independence to change you, and you need a guiding hand."

"So she sent you." Isabel folded her arms across her chest, glaring at him.

He made a mocking little bow in return. "She's counting on me to provide a calming, stabilizing influence to help you come to your senses--"

"Stop right there!" she demanded, holding up both hands. "First of all, my senses are just fine, thank you. In fact, I see things more clearly now than I ever have before. I know who and what I want in my life, and you are _not_ on the list."

"Oh, come now, Bella," he smirked. "Surely you're not going to hold that one little mistake against me forever."

"If I'd told Gram about that 'one little mistake,' you wouldn't be here now," she replied coldly. "I didn't, but I could still yet. Don't push me, Lindsay. I won't be treated like a doormat."

His eyes snapped fire at her continued defiance, and he took a menacing step forward. "Still the same, aren't you, Bella? Still Miss Nose-In-The-Air. _I'm_ not good enough for you--but that long-haired lowlife _is_. What is it about him, Bella?" Lindsay curled his lip in a sneer. "No money, no family . He's nothing, yet you let him paw you like some bitch in heat! Developed a taste for the commoners, have you? Does it give you a cheap thrill when he defiles you with his touch? To know how much you're degrading yourself when you parade around with him like a common whore--"

Isabel's open palm connected with Lindsay's cheek with a resounding CRACK! that seemed to echo in the silent room, and she stared at the bright crimson handprint on his face with grim satsifaction. He raised his hand to his cheek, staring at her as if he couldn't believe what she'd just done--then with the speed of a striking snake, he grabbed her shoulders and began to shake her, his features contorted with rage.

"You _dare_ \--!" he ground out through clenched teeth.

She tried to twist free, but he only tightened his grasp, his fingers digging into her flesh hard enough to leave bruises, and fear welled up in her chest. Oh, she'd done it now! She'd well and truly ticked him off, and there was no telling what he'd do to punish her. He might even--

Her mind rebelled at the very idea, but her instincts were proven horribly accurate when without warning, he pressed his mouth to hers in a demanding kiss, crushing her in his arms, his hands roving everywhere he could reach; she struggled, trying in vain to escape, but he was too strong, and she had no hope of overcoming him, especially when he was being spurred on by anger.

And then she remembered...

Davy's voice rang in her head, clear as if he were standing there at that moment, and she recalled every word of the advice she'd overheard him give Mags one night at a club: "Just hit 'im _there_ , luv, and 'e won't trouble you again, you can be sure of that!"

Balancing on her left leg, she rammed her right knee up with as much speed and force as she could manage--and Lindsay screamed and dropped like a stone, clutching the wounded portion of his anatomy as he twisted in agony on the floor.

Isabel stared down at him, swiping the back of her hand across her mouth as if that could erase the memory of his brutal kisses; her stomach was in knots, but she was filled with triumphant glee at the sight of her victory over Lindsay, and in a way over her grandmother. She would _not_ be manipulated! Not by either of them!

While he squirmed, she crossed over to the phone and dialled, drumming her fingers on the table as she waited for someone to pick up, and in a matter of moments, she heard a cheerful voice ask, "hello?"

"Hi, Micky--who's home right now?" she asked, casting a cool look down at the young man writhing at her feet.

"Everyone at the moment. Why?"

"Could you all come over here? I have some trash I need you to take out for me," she asked sweetly.

" _All_ of us?" he replied, his pitch rising in obvious bewilderment. "Must be a whole lot of trash!"

"No, just very heavy. Could you come right away please? It's important."

Less than five minutes later, her front door opened, and the four of them walked in; Micky bounded into the room first, but he was brought up short by the sight of Lindsay curled up on the floor, still groaning. Peter and Davy ploughed into him from behind and Mike, who was going at his usual ambling pace, managed to avoid the collision, but just barely.

"What in the _world_ did you _do_ to him?!" Micky yelped, his eyes growing wide.

"Yeah, I'd kinda like to know that myself," Mike added, regarding her victim uneasily.

"He was bothering me," she answered in tones dripping with honey. "I made him stop."

"How?!" They all chorused in unison, and she had to bite back the laughter that rose to her lips at the sight of their collective discomfort.

"Well..." She shrugged and tried to look as innocent as possible. "He was forcing unwelcome attention on me, and I remembered some advice Davy gave Mags, so..." She trailed off significantly and shrugged again.

"What advice?" Micky demanded, turning on Davy, who backed up a pace, both hands raised as he shook his head.

"Don't look at me, man--"

"What advice?" Mike insisted.

"I dunno!" Davy protested. "Unless you mean what I told her after that guy got a little too friendly on the dance floor." He looked to Isabel for an answer, and when she nodded, he winced. "Oh. _That_ advice."

"What advice?" Peter chimed in, and in response, Davy jerked his left knee up--and the other three instantly cringed, their faces contorted with varying levels of grimaces.

"Oh," Micky murmured weakly. " _That_ advice..."

"It was very good advice," Isabel said primly, folding her hands neatly in front of her.

"So who is this guy anyway, and what was he doin puttin the moves on you?" Mike demanded, glaring down at the still-squirming uninvited guest.

"Guys, this is Lindsay the Slug."

"Hello, Mr. Slug, nice to meet you," Peter said as he bent over and grabbed one of Lindsay's arms; following Peter's lead, Micky grabbed his other arm and, with Davy standing behind him to make sure he didn't fall backwards, they dragged him upright.

"This is it?" Mike asked disdainfully, gesturing to Lindsay.

"That's the one," she affirmed, curling her lip in a contemptuous sneer while she watched Micky, Peter and Davy haul him out of the house; he let his head hang against his chest and occasionally emitted a low moan, but she didn't feel the least bit sorry for him. 

Skirting around them, Mike opened and held the front door for them and then opened Lindsay's car door, stepping back so Micky and Peter could help the guy into the driver's seat. Once he was settled, Mike leaned over, his expression deadpan as he warned, "And don't come back or I'll sic Isabel on you again."

Giggling, Micky slammed the door shut, leaving him to drive away whenever he felt capable of it once more.

"Well," Mike drawled, slipping one arm around Isabel's shoulders. "It's comforting to know I've got a girl who can stand up to all the neighborhood bullies when they try to pick on me."

"Very funny," she muttered.

Now that the shock had worn off, she was beginning to feel shaky, especially when she thought about what _could_ have happened. If she hadn't remembered Davy's advice, if she hadn't kneed him, he would have...and that would have made him the first...She shuddered, feeling a wave of nausea sweep over her. To have her virginity taken from her by force? No--no way. And not by _Lindsay!_

As if he sensed her growing unease, Mike captured her chin in his fingers and tilted her head up so he could see her face; concern instantly bloomed in his eyes, and he began to steer her towards her house with a dismissive wave to the others. "Y'all go on back to the Pad," he said, more of an order than a suggestion. "We'll be along later."

With that, Micky, Peter and Davy hurried away, and Mike gave her a mirthless smile as they walked back inside. "I'm guessin we need to talk about this."

"You're guessing right," she replied quietly. "About this...and some other things."

Oh, yes. She had several things to discuss with him. Micky was right: she needed to talk to Mike about the decision she was wrestling with. Now it just remained to be seen how he would react...


	2. Chapter 2

Isabel half-way expected Mike to start grilling her the moment they were in the house alone, but to her surprise, the first thing out of his mouth was, "You want some coffee?"

She half-smiled at him as she answered, "No, thanks. I'm jittery enough without it."

With a curt nod, he made himself comfortable on the couch and sat there watching her expectantly, but it was clear he wasn't going to pounce with a lot of questions until she seemed ready. With a quiet sigh, she curled up facing him at the opposite end of the sofa and leaned her arm on the back of it, resting her head in her hand as she tried to figure out how to begin.

"That was Lindsay Wythe-Farthingill," she said at last. "The guy Gram wanted me to marry."

"I figured." His voice was well-laced with disdain, and she smiled, understanding his reaction all too well; she had felt the same way about Lindsay ever since she'd met him. "So what was that creep doin here?"

"Gram sent him," she replied flatly, her eyes turning cold.

"Your _grandmother_?" He arched one eyebrow, obviously taken aback by this bit of information. "I thought she didn't want anything to do with you."

"She doesn't. Or so she said. But she still wants to control my life, so she's trying to use Lindsay to do it."

And the more Isabel thought about it, the angrier she got; Gram had lost her right to any say-so in Isabel's life after disinheriting her. And why she bothered sending Lindsay to do her dirty work for her was beyond Isabel's comprehension. She couldn't be directly nosy, so she was going to pry vicariously? Oh, no! She wanted out, she would _stay_ out! All the way out!

Heat rushed into her face, and she could feel her temper rising, but just as she was on the verge of launching into a tirade about her grandmother's hypocrisy, Mike's expression changed to that tiny frown that she knew meant he was in deep thought, and she held off, waiting to see what he was going to say first.

"Does she know what this guy's really like?" he asked, still sounding distracted as if he were trying to puzzle something out. 

"I doubt it, but even if she did, I have to wonder if she would even care. Sometimes I think she wants someone under her thumb so badly, she doesn't care how much I suffer as a result of her plotting," Isabel replied bitterly.

"He's done this before, hasn't he." Mike leveled a steady look at her, and she dropped her gaze to her lap as she nodded. "Thought so. How'd you fight him off last time?"

"I didn't," she said, gripping her fingers together tightly at the horrible memory. "Higgins walked in."

"Higgins--?"

"Gram's butler. Lindsay pretended it had been...mutual," she added softly, still unable to look at him.

"Why didn't you tell her the truth?"

"Because--" She snapped her head up, her expression filled with anger and pain. "Because I didn't think Gram would believe me! Lindsay is a very good, very convincing liar, and I was sure Gram would think I was making it all up because she knows how much I dislike him. She would probably have dimissed it as just another attempt to get out of seeing him." She paused, then continued, "She won't hear the truth about what happened here today either."

She thought she heard him mutter, "don't be too sure," but he said it--if he _did_ say it at all--so softly that she couldn't be certain, and she didn't want to ask in case she was hearing things. 

"What about money, Isa?" he asked, his tone mirroring his concern. "She said she was going to cut you off. Are you gonna be able to make it now? Does your job pay enough?"

She gave a hollow laugh and shook her head. "That was an empty threat, and she knows it. I don't need her money. The paper pays me enough to support myself as long as Babbitt doesn't raise the rent again any time soon, and once Mags finds a job, she's going to pay half of the bills, which will help a lot. Gram sent me a check every month, and I deposited the money in a savings account. I never touched it because I wanted to prove to myself _and_ to her that I could manage on my own. So far, I have. If she wants the money back, she can have it. And--" She shrugged negligently. "--there's always the small trust fund my parents left me to fall back on in an emergency. I gained control of it on my last birthday, and it's in _my_ name only. Gram can't touch it."

"Good." He nodded as if satisfied. "If worse came to worse, I was gonna offer to let you stay with us, but the place is kinda crowded as it is."

"Thanks anyway." She laughed outright at that notion, and some of the tension riding her shoulders melted away. "I wouldn't want to crimp the swingin' bachelor lifestyle over there."

"Yeah, it'd mean Micky'd have to clean up after himself once in a while."

"Heaven forbid," she said, still chuckling. "Now could we change the subject, please? I'm sick to death of talking about my grandmother."

"Okay." He shrugged amiably. "What _do_ you wanna talk about?"

"Funny you should ask..." She felt the blush creeping up her neck and into her cheeks, and she glanced furtively away from him, embarrassment killing the words before she could speak them; she had _no_ idea how to broach the topic she wanted--needed--to discuss with him. "There--there's something I've been thinking about..." she stammered at last. "Something I've wanted to talk to you about--something important."

"Okay, shoot."

"I--um--I was wondering..." She paused, sucked in a deep breath and released it slowly, wringing her suddenly sweaty hands together. "I wanted to know what you think about--about s-s--" And then her tongue froze completely, making her unable to get the critical word out.

He leaned forward with his elbows on his knees, curiosity etched in his features as he waited for her to finish.

"I want to know what you think about sex," she blurted all in a rush, then immediately had to fight the urge to bury her flaming red face in a pillow.

"Sex?" he echoed, both eyebrows practically disappearing in his hairline as he stared at her with what was--for him--a look of stunned surprise. Clearly he hadn't expected _that_!

"Yes...Do you like it?" she asked hesitantly.

He gave her a long, steady, "I can't believe you just asked me that" look.

"Okay, okay." She waved her hands impatiently, realizing belatedly what a dumbass question _that_ was. "What I meant was, do you--I mean--would you be interested in--in--in doing it with me?"

He gave her _another_ long, steady, "I can't believe you just asked me that" look.

"Mike, stop it! I'm serious!"

"Well, what'd you _think_ I was gonna say? 'No, the thought never crossed my mind once til you mentioned it, and now that you have, I'm totally disgusted by the idea'?" he exclaimed, rolling his eyes heavenward. "Sheesh..." He shook his head, his expression incredulous.

"So..." She bit her lip, still feeling shy even though the ice had been broken. "So you _have_ thought about it?"

"Maybe once."

" _Mike_!"

"Sorry." But his soft chuckle belied the apology. "I just can't believe you're askin me that." He paused, then shot her a shrewd, intense look. "What brought all this on, anyway?"

Uh-oh. There it was. The Big Question.

"Well..." She hedged, wringing her hands together harder as she glanced everywhere around the room except at him. "Well, I've...kind of been...um...thinking about it myself lately..."

"And?" he prompted when her words trailed off, and she tried to swallow past the cotton forming in her throat.

"And...I've been thinking that...that we ought to talk about it...so...here we are."

"I see."

She hadn't been able to guess how he'd react to the idea--somewhere between scooping her up to carry her off to the bedroom and fleeing in horror--but frowning and rubbing his temples like he was getting a headache wasn't at all what she'd expected. 

"Are you sure this doesn't have anything to do with your grandmother?" he asked at last, leveling an intense gaze at her that let her know he was watching carefully for any sign of hedging or dissembling. 

"What do you mean?" she asked, not quite following that train of thought. 

"I _mean_ , you don't need to make a serious decision like this when you're already upset," he answered patiently. "I don't want you to let your heart over-rule your common sense just because you're feeling rejected--"

"Oh, no!" she interrupted hastily. "I was thinking about this a _long_ time before Gram disinherited me!"

He blinked, visibly startled. "Oh, _really_."

"Yes..." She felt herself blushing again, and she twisted her fingers together tightly in her lap. "I--what we do--it's--well, lately it hasn't been enough," she stammered out at last. "It's probably going to be years before we can afford to get married, and--and--well, what does it mean anyway? That little piece of paper won't change how we feel about each other, and I--" She sucked in a deep breath, fortifying herself for what she was about to say next. "We're both--I mean--we seem to want to spend the rest of our lives together. I just don't see the point in waiting to have some legal document to tell us it's okay to express how we feel about each other that way."

"I see."

Once again, his expression was unreadable, and she wondered how he was taking all of this; part of her was a little peeved that he wasn't already trying to herd her off to bed with him, and part of her was in a panic, terrified he was going to turn her down flat. 

"Well," he began slowly. "There's nothing I can say that won't sound selfish, 'cause if it was up to me, we'd be naked right now." The words were delivered in an off-hand, matter-of-fact manner, but the implication--and the accompanying images they gave her--sent a delicious shiver down Isabel's spine. "So I'm just gonna leave it up to you. This is your decision, and you gotta make it in your own time. Whenever you're ready, you just let me know."

"Okay." She nodded, worrying her bottom lip with her teeth as she debated the wisdom of asking the one last question that burned in her mind. "Um--do you mind if I ask you something really personal?"

"Sure." He shrugged negligantly.

She paused, stoking her courage. "How many girls have you--been with--?" she trailed off before she could get the rest of the question out, but she didn't need to finish.

"Five."

"Five?!" she squeaked, one hand flying to her throat as she digested that information. Five girls before her...

"When I was eighteen, I started sowin some wild oats, and I didn't quit for about two years. In fact, I was quite a hell-raiser for a while there." He rubbed the back of his neck, his expression rueful. 

" _You_?"

"Yeah, me." He chuckled softly.

"But--you never told me any of this before--" She broke off, not wanting to pry, but at the same time, she was surprised that there was a whole period in his life that he'd kept secret from her.

"It's not something I'm real proud of," he replied with a quiet sigh. "I did a lot of stuff that--well, you and the guys would be plenty surprised if y'all knew about it. At the time, I was hurtin, and I was tryin to run away from the pain. Finally I grew up enough to get right disgusted with myself and the way I was livin, so I stopped." He paused, his voice pensive and distant as he added, "Remember when I told you about Caroline?"

Isabel nodded. "The girl you said was your first love."

"That's the one." He fell silent for a long moment, staring at the floor as if seeking the words to continue in its highly polished wood grain. "I fell hard for her, and when she--when I left home, I was pretty messed up because of her."

"What did she do? You didn't tell me that." She watched the play of emotion in his eyes when he glanced up at her, and she knew he was debating on whether to open up about his past or not. "You don't have to," she added, trying to assure him she wasn't trying to be nosy. "I just--"

"No, I think you oughta know," he interrupted abruptly. "You gotta understand I thought she was special. I thought she was what you are. Honest, loving--and loyal." He caressed her cheek with the back of one finger, smiling fondly at her, but his smile abruptly faded as he began to speak again. "But she wasn't. She betrayed me, and I was such a fool it took someone else to show me what was right in front of my eyes all the time. I thought I loved her, I thought I wanted to marry her--and it all turned to ashes."

"I'm sorry," she whispered, wishing there was some way she could erase the pain she saw still lingering in the depths of his eyes--that, or get her hands on the selfish wench who'd put it there in the first place.

"Me too," he said simply. "It took me a long time to feel like I could trust a woman again. I didn't--until I met you." He waved one hand dismissively as if brushing aside something distasteful. "Anyway. I settled down a lot after I moved in with the guys. I _had_ to. Tryin to look after them is enough to make _anyone_ grow up in a hurry."

"Oh..." She stared at her hands in her lap, her mind abruptly reminding her of the information that had sparked the discussion in the first place. Five girls...And they were probably all beautiful and much better in bed than she ever would be. She was just an ignorant, inexperienced virgin who had no idea what to expect or what to do...

"Hey--" He reached out and touched her arm to get her attention. "What's wrong?"

Slowly she lifted worried eyes to meet his. "You won't--you won't laugh at me, will you?" she whispered.

"Aww..." Suddenly he scooted over to her side of the couch, slipping one arm across her shoulders, a comforting gesture she responded to immediately, nestling close and resting her head on his chest. "I'm not gonna laugh at you, little one. You oughta know better than that."

"But--"

"No buts," he replied firmly, touching a finger to her lips. "And quit worryin. Whenever it happens, it's gonna be just as nerve-wrackin for me as it is you."

"What?" She gasped, astonished by that cryptic remark. "Why?"

"Because I wasn't the first with any of those other girls," he stated simply. "And with you--well, I don't want to mess up and make it bad for you."

Nodding, she wrapped her arms around his waist and snuggled against him; where she lay, she could hear his heartbeat keeping a solid rhythm, steady and strong--just like him. She could count on him. She could trust him. And it was the strongest sense of security she'd ever experienced in her entire life. Concern about her own performance might gnaw at her, but concern about how _he_ would treat _her_ \--? No. She knew without a doubt that he would make certain their first encounter was as pleasant as possible.

But then an icy hand gripped her spine when a new fear suddenly appeared, and she sat up again.

"You'll--you'll still--respect me, won't you?" she asked. It was almost a plea. "I know what people think of girls who go all the way, and I don't want you to think I'm like that--"

"No one is gonna think you're like that," he answered quickly. "Especially not me."

"So--you _do_ respect me?"

"Of course I do!" he exclaimed indignantly. "Why d'you think I haven't laid a hand on you?"

It was her turn now to give him an "I can't believe you just said that" look, and he shook his head.

"Figuratively," he retorted. "You know I haven't tried to cross the line."

"I know. I'm sorry." She kissed him lightly by way of apology. "I couldn't resist teasing. And you're right. You've been a perfect gentleman, but...will that change if we...?"

"No," he replied firmly. "I respect you because of who you are. You're a good person, Isa, and this--when it happens--isn't gonna change that."

Suddenly another question popped in her head, and she tilted her head up. "How long has it been for you, anyway?" she asked, her tone laden with curiosity.

He glanced at her, seeming surprised by the question, but he answered nonetheless. "Since November, 1965."

Letting out a low whistle, she grinned impishly at him. "That's quite a dry spell."

"Well, I met Micky, Peter and Davy not too long after I started turnin my life around," he replied, shrugging. "One thing led to another, and pretty soon the band became my priority. I had other things on my mind than chasin girls. Then after I met you..." He let the words die away, and she poked him in the ribs, a not-so-subtle hint to continue--especially when she saw the faint tinge of pink staining his cheeks and nose. Admitting his feelings aloud--rather than in song lyrics--was a rarity for him, and she wasn't about to let him off the hook now.

"After you met me what?" she prompted.

"After I met you, I didn't want any other girl," he admitted in a low voice. "I still don't. I never will."

Mere words weren't nearly enough to express how hearing that made her feel, so she didn't even try; instead, she pulled him into a lingering, complicated kiss that left them both breathing hard for several minutes afterward.

But as distracting as the kiss had been, her mind still managed to dredge up another question. "One other thing..." she said slowly. "If we have sex--"

"No. Don't call it that." He hushed her with a finger against her lips. "I had sex with those other girls. With you, I'll be makin love."

She stared at him, wide-eyed, momentarily silenced as she digested the implications of his words. "Oh, God..." she breathed, searching his face and seeing only sincerity there. "Remind me to stop complaining you don't tell me how you feel enough. You don't do it often, but when you do--oh, it's deadly."

"If you knew how much I feel for you," he murmured, dropping a line of light kisses along her jaw, "you'd probably be scared to death."

"No..." She wrapped her arms around him and held him close. "If I knew, I wouldn't be able to bear the joy. It'd be too much to contain inside."

This time, _he_ kissed _her_ , and she lost herself in the embrace, drowning in the warm satisfaction of knowing she was loved; if he had asked, if he had pressed his advantage in the slightest degree, she probably would have given in right then, right there on the couch, but he didn't--and then his chance was gone, banished forever thanks to Micky barging in, slamming the door shut behind him and coughing loudly as he walked down the hall to the living room. Immediately, Mike and Isabel sprang apart, retreating to opposite sides of the couch as if their flushed faces and disheveled appearances wouldn't give them away.

"Anybody home?" Micky carolled at the top of his lungs as he rounded the corner.

"Whaddaya want?" Mike growled menacingly, but his room-mate simply laughed.

"Thought Izzy might like to know Lindsay the Slug is finally gone," he announced. "We saw him pull out about five minutes ago." 

"Great!" she exclaimed, a profound sense of relief washing over her at the knowledge he wasn't out there waiting for her to be left alone again.

"Thought you might be glad to hear it," Micky said, a mischievous grin tugging at his lips. "That's all. You can go back to...whatever you were doing now."

Sprinting out the door, he managed to elude the barrage of pillows hurled at him, his laughter echoing down the hall at them even after he was gone.

~*~*~ 

"'Ey, where's Mike?" Davy called to Micky and Peter from the kitchen where he was preparing dinner. "The spaghetti's almost done." 

"I dunno." Peter stopped running through "You Told Me" on his banjo and glanced up, his expression mildly curious. "I haven't seen him since we left next door."

"I have," Micky announced. "I saw him out on the beach about an hour ago while I was over at Pansy's. Bet he's still out there. Want me to go look for him?"

"Yeah." Davy nodded as he returned to stirring the noodles. "Tell im dinnah's ready."

"Okay." Micky bounded to his feet and out the beach-side door, scanning up and down the beach as he hurried down the steps and trotted towards the shore. Seeing no sign of his room-mate, he cupped his hands around his mouth and yelled at the top of his lungs, hoping that would draw him out of hiding. "MIIIIIIIIKE!"

Seconds later, a familiar silhouette appeared among the rocks lining the beach, and a familiar irritated tone carried to him on the evening breeze. "Aw, man--whaddaya want _now_?"

Micky grinned as he scampered over to the alcove of rocks where Mike had hidden himself from public view, but his cheerful expression faded once he saw the look on Mike's face; his normally somber features were etched with worry, his eyes pensive and distant as if he were deep in thought.

"Hey..." Micky reached out and dropped a hand on Mike's shoulder. "Is something wrong?"

"Nah..." Mike shook his head dismissively, mustering a little smile. "Not really. I just got a couple of things on my mind."

Normally a remark like that would've sparked a joke, but Micky resisted the urge this time. "Anything you wanna talk about?" He knew it was probably a futile question; Mike didn't generally open up to any of them quickly or easily, but he figured he ought to ask anyway just in case.

To his surprise, Mike paused, appearing to consider the question instead of immediately brushing him off. Then with a sigh, he sat down on the sand again, stretching his long legs out in front of him and leaning back on his hands; without thinking twice, Micky dropped down beside him, watching him with growing curiosity as he waiting for his friend to start talking.

"I've been thinkin about Mrs. Evans," Mike said at last, keeping his gaze trained on the setting sun on the horizon. "Isa hasn't said much, but I can tell this is tearin her up inside, and I don't like it. I was thinkin..." He broke off, hesitating for a moment before continuing. "I think I oughta go see her."

" _What_?!" Micky stared at him, his jaw scraping the sand. "What are you--nuts? Go see that scary old bat? What for?"

"I wanna talk to her about Isa," Mike replied simply. "I'm the reason Mrs. Evans disinherited her, and I'm the only one who can fix this. If it can be fixed. Those two sure aren't gonna bend anytime soon on their own," he added with an ironic chuckle.

Micky fell silent a moment, contemplating the implications of Mike's words. "Well..." he began slowly, "there's not really any way you could make things worse by talking to her. I mean, she's already thrown Izzy out of her life. What else could she do?" he said pragmatically. "And if it helps, then it's all to the good, right?" 

"That's what I thought," Mike agreed, nodding.

"Groovy." Micky shifted to sit cross-legged, idly sifting through the sand for pieces of shells, which he turned over his fingers as they talked. "So what's the other thing?"

Mike shot him a blank look, and he replied with infinite patience, "You said you had a couple of things on your mind."

"Oh..." And to Micky's surprise, he saw a faint tinge of pink stealing into his friend's cheeks. "Yeah...I did." Suddenly Mike snapped his head up and fixed Micky with a fierce stare. "But if I tell you this, you gotta swear you won't tell anyone. Not Peter, not Davy--and especially not Isa."

"Of course," he replied, pressing one hand to his heart. "What do you think I am? Some kind of blabbermouth?"

"Yes."

"I'm hurt--I really am--!"

"D'you wanna listen, or you wanna go drama queen on me?" Mike interrupted brusquely, and Micky immediately propped his chin on his hands, every bit of his attention riveted on Mike; if whatever Mike had been thinkng about was enough to make him blush, Micky definitely wanted to know what it was. Nodding as if satisfied, Mike glanced away again before admitting quietly, "Isa told me she's been thinkin lately about us makin love. _Before_ gettin married."

"Oh, I know!" Micky chirped before he even thought to censor himself, and Mike gaped at him with wide-eyed shock.

"You _know_ \--?"

"Yeah, she talked to me about it a few days ago," he continued, spreading his hands in a conciliatory gesture. "She said she wasn't ready to say anything to you yet 'cause she didn't want to lead you on, but she needed to talk over some stuff."

"Like what?"

"That would be betraying a confidence," Micky replied, affecting a wounded air.

"I see where _your_ loyalties are," Mike grumbled.

"Yep," Micky nodded. "With _both_ of you. I'm not telling you what she said, and I won't tell her what _you_ say."

Mike gave him a long, shrewd look and then nodded, obviously pleased with that answer. "I gotta admit, Mick, the idea makes me nervous."

"Nervous?" He almost laughed, but he knew if Mike said it, he meant it, and he didn't want to risk offending his friend with ill-timed mirth. "Why? I mean, I'd feel a lot of things if my girl said that to me, but nervousness wouldn't be one of them."

"Even if your girl was a virgin whose only experience with anything more than kissin was with you?" Mike countered, and Micky paused, considering.

"You mean...Izzy's never done... _anything_ with anyone but you?" he asked hesitantly. He'd been out with inexperienced girls before, but never one _that_ inexperienced.

"Nope. She only had one serious boyfriend before me, but it didn't last long, and they didn't get very involved."

"Whoa..." Micky felt his eyes growing wide as he digested this new bit of information. "Okay, yeah. I take it back. I'd be nervous too." 

"Yeah." Mike nodded, his expression unusually grave. "This is a big responsibility. I mean, it's not like we've done a lot either, y'know? I've let her set the pace, and it's been real slow, so I'm kinda surprised she's makin this big a jump." He paused, his expression troubled. "I hope she's not doin this 'cause she thinks I'm gettin impatient--"

"No, definitely not!" Micky interrupted hastily before Mike could travel too far down the road of doubt. "From what she told me, it's what _she_ wants."

"Huh." Mike stared off in the distance again, appearing to contemplate this idea for a while. "Well, that's one good thing," he said at last. "I don't want her to feel like I'm rushin her. I've waited this long. A little longer isn't gonna kill me...and she's worth the wait."

Trailing his fingers through the cooling sand, Micky thought long and hard about what he should say next; he meant it when he said he wouldn't betray anything either of them confided in him, but at the same time, he wanted to reassure Mike somehow.

At last he took a deep breath and let it out again slowly before beginning to speak. "Izzy loves you a lot, Mike," he said quietly. "She's thought about this for a long time. It's not a whim, and if she's said she's getting ready to make the jump, then she means it. You know her," he said with a chuckle. "She doesn't make hasty decisions, and once she makes up her mind about something, she's as hard-headed as you are, determined to see it through. She wants to make this committment to you, and it's her idea, not yours. You didn't influence her...Well, not directly, anyway," he added with an impish grin.

"Yeah, but, Micky--" Mike raked his fingers through his hair and blew out a frustrated sigh. "I've never been with a virgin before, man. This is serious pressure! What if I do something wrong and scare her to death? I've gotta be careful. I don't want to hurt her or freak her out--" He broke off, grimacing slightly, and turned away. 

A hundred glib responses rushed into Micky's head, but he discarded them, looking for the one thing he could say that would also be the right thing. He'd never been in Mike's situation before, but he could understand why Mike felt the way he did.

"I want it to be perfect for her," Mike continued, bowing his head as he spoke, his voice soft and unusually full of emotion. "I want it to be something she'll always remember, but I'm afraid I'll mess up somehow."

Micky sat dumb-founded for a moment, stunned by this quiet confession; he couldn't remember ever hearing Mike express any sort of doubt before, but he supposed his friend's heart was as vulnerable as anyone else's. He'd just never expected to hear an admission of the fact.

"Don't worry about it," he replied, abandoning his usual carefree tone for the time being. "I mean it--you really shouldn't worry. I mean, if you want it to be special, it will be 'cause you're...Well, how could it not be, man?" he said, flailing his hands helplessly as he tried to express his thoughts. "It's you and Izzy, and you're special together no matter what, y'know? And besides--we all know when Mike Nesmith puts his mind to something, he makes it happen," he said with an impish grin. "So if you've decided it'll be perfect, then it will be."

That actually coaxed a chuckle from Mike. "I dunno. She says _she's_ ready, but I'm not sure _I_ am."

Micky schooled his mobile features into a carefully earnest expression as he answered with the most somber tone he could muster. "Don't let her rush you into anything you're not ready for, man. If she's pushing you too far too fast, just tell her you're a nice boy and you want to wait til you're married."

"Aw, man--shut up!" Mike swung playfully at him, and they were still scuffling when Peter poked his head around the rocks, watching them with wide-eyed curiosity.

"What's going on?" Peter asked, and his two room-mates broke off their mock-fight and scrambled to their feet, dusting off the sand clinging to their clothes.

"Nothin," Mike replied with a reassuring smile.

"Yeah, I was just mouthin off at him again," Micky added smoothly, and Peter nodded, obviously accepting their explanation.

"Well, you better get back to the Pad," he informed them gravely. "Davy's mad 'cause his noodles are sticking and the sauce is getting cold."

"Okay. Tell him we'll be there in a sec." Micky patted him on the shoulder, giving him a little nudge to send him on his way, and Peter disappeared again. "Well?" He cocked a questioning eyebrow at his friend. "Feel better?"

One corner of Mike's mouth quirked up in a tiny smile. "Yeah. Thanks."

"No problem," he said, his usual sunny grin returning. "And if Izzy starts getting fresh, just let me know, and I'll defend your honor."

Mike waited to pounce in retaliation until they got back to the Pad, but once they stepped through the door, he dove for the couch, grabbed a pillow and started whacking Micky as hard as he could, inadvertantly starting a pillow fight that spread to entail Peter and Davy as well and covered every room in the house by the time it was all over.


	3. Chapter 3

"Are you sure you want to do this?" Mags asked as Mike turned off the road and drove through the open wrought-iron gates leading to the Evans estate.

"It isn't a question of wantin to," he replied tersely. "I _have_ to."

She remembered the surprise she'd felt that morning when Mike had asked her for directions to Margaret Evans' house. "Why in the world do you want to go _there_?" she'd blurted without thinking, and he'd given her a grim smile in return.

"I wanna talk to her," was all he'd said, and Mags had offered to go with him instead of just providing a map. He'd balked at the idea at first, but she'd insisted he stood a better chance of getting in to see the cantankerous old woman if she were along. She'd worked for the womanóshe knew how Mrs. Evans thought, and she doubted Mike would make it past the front door alone.

She hadn't been back to Harker's Ferry since quitting her job, and she hadn't missed it at all. It was a small town, completely hide-bound and wrapped up in its own interests, and she'd felt stifled the entire time she lived there, which was not quite a year-and-a-half.

And presiding over every aspect of Harker's Ferry society was Margaret Evans, the unofficial but undeniable matriarch of the town. 

Mags privately thought that the influence and power Mrs. Evans wielded here had gone to her head, making her think she could control everyone's lives, including Mags and Isabel's; perhaps it was her nature to do so, but Mags preferred to be kind and think it was a result of the insular nature of the community. She was the wealthiest person from the oldest family, therefore everyone practically bowed when she walked past. _Who wouldn't repond to that_? she thought.

"This...is where she lives?" Mike asked as the four-story Victorian mansion loomed closer and closer.

"This is it," Mags confirmed.

He stopped the car and peered at it through the windshield, a dark thundercloud settling in his expression. "There's a few things Isabel hasn't told me."

It wasn't a question, but Mags nodded anyway. "She--doesn't like talking about her family. She hated it here, and the first chance she had to get away, she took it. She just wanted to approach life on her own terms, not have her path chosen for her because of who she is." 

"And who is she?"

"Margaret Evans' grand-daughter," she replied simply.

"What's _that_ supposed to mean?" he demanded.

"In Harker's Ferry--everything."

~*~*~ 

Just as Mags suspected, when Higgins returned from announcing Mike's presence to Mrs. Evans, he informed them that his employer would not receive "that Niswash person."

Mike had been understandably irate at this news, but Mags nudged him out of the way and had a word in private to Higgins, convincing him to let her see Mrs. Evans alone for a few minutes--without being announced first. Higgins was dubious, but he had always liked Mags, and when she told him she was there to help mend the rift between Mrs. Evans and her grand-daughter, he complied immediately.

"You'll find her in the morning room," he told her, and she took off down the hall, pausing once before the door to straighten her shoulders and brace herself so that she wouldn't show any weakness when she faced the lioness in her den.

As soon as Mags stepped inside the morning room, Mrs. Evans glanced up, visibly surprised.

"Well." Margaret Evans folded her hands in her lap and gave her former employee a level gaze that revealed nothing of what was going on inside her head. "The other prodigal returns at last. Come back to plead on my grand-daughter's behalf, perhaps?" She inclined her head, a small, condescending smile playing at the corners of her mouth. "Or to try to convince me to speak to that ruffian loitering on my doorstep?"

"No," Mags answered, proud of herself for maintaining an even tone. "I'm here to set you straight on a few things."

Mrs. Evans' expression shifted--very briefly--to one of surprise, but the dispassionate mask was soon back in place. "Oh?" She managed to sound bored, but Mags wasn't fooled. Her keen, dark eyes were glittering with curiosity, and she had leaned forward slightly in her chair.

"You're wrong," Mags stated, not bothering with false respect and courtesy; she felt the woman deserved neither. "About a lot of things, namely Isabel and Mike--about _all_ of them as a matter of fact."

"I am older than you, young woman," Mrs. Evans replied icily. "I have seen more of people and of the world than you. I think I can assess a person's character accurately."

"Not when your own emotions are in the way!" Mags exclaimed, feeling her frustration rise in the face of such obstinancy. "You've got a blind spot where Isabel's concerned. She loves you, and this whole situation has hurt her more than you can possibly imagine, but she won't come crawling back to you, if that's what you're waiting for. She's got too much pride for that, and she feels she's right--and I agree with her. What you did was wrong, and it was unfair, and you should be ashamed of yourself!" Mags broke off suddenly, astonished at herself.

"You dare--!"

"Yes, I dare!" she countered, righteous indignation on her friend's behalf rising within heróa sensation quite foreign to her. She'd never before felt the desire to defend anyone, to put up a fight on anyone's behalf. But her new friends had swiftly become the most important people in her tiny world, and she would not stand idly by and let someone hurt themóany of them. "It's true, and you know it! The only reason you're doing this is because you're afraid you're going to lose Isabel if she gets involved with someone you can't control, but don't you see? You've already lost her! You pushed her away yourself."

"Presumptuous creature!" Mrs. Evans declared, her eyes flashing with anger. "What nerve to come into my home and accuse me of being afraid--!"

"Mike isn't a threat to you," Mags continued as if the older woman hadn't even spoken. "He doesn't want to come between you and Isabel, and you know your grand-daughter. She has enough love in her heart for both of you. You're not in competition with him. Unless you choose to be."

Mags paused, taking in Mrs. Evans' expression--the war of anger and confusion waging there--her hands clenching the arms of her chair, her rigid posture, and she felt a flicker of hope that she might be getting through. Then the older woman relaxed slightly, regarding Mags through narrowed eyes.

"You've changed," she stated bluntly. "You wouldn't say boo to a goose before."

"Yes." Mags nodded agreement. "I've changed. Thanks to my friends. I've learned what it's like to be accepted unconditionally. I've never been very good at making friends, but they took me into their circle, let me be one of them--and I didn't have to do anything except be there." She felt a lump forming in her throat, and tears stung her eyelids; as much as she hated the idea of weeping in front of Margaret Evans, she doubted she would be able to prevent it. She felt so much love and gratitude that it overwhelmed her at times, and she couldn't begin to express it in mere words.

Instead, she moved to the nearest window, turning her back to the other woman until she had composed herself, and when she faced the room again, her usual tranquil expression was firmly in place once more.

"They're good people," she said quietly. "They're all very different, but they care about things and people deeply, and they look out for those they love."

"Do they indeed?" Mrs. Evans appeared to mull that over silently for a momentóand then to Mags' complete surprise, she skewered Mags with a look and demanded, "Tell me about them. Tell me about these people my grand-daughter has taken up with."

"They're friends," she replied. "Some of them have known each other longer than others, but they got together to form a band, and they're trying to make it in the music industry. That's what they want more than anything else--and they're good. I think they _will_ make it one day."

" _You_ are biased," Mrs. Evans snorted. "Continue."

For a moment, Mags was at a loss for words. How was she supposed to explain these wildly diverse personalities? Explain how they managed to turn their differences into strengths?

"Peter..." she began slowly, "is the group's heart. He's the purest soul I've ever met. Micky is its laughter. He helps ease tension and keeps everyone's spirits up. Davy is its energy. He pours his entire heart and soul into everything he does, and I've never seen anyone enjoy life more. Mike..."

Oh, boy. She'd saved the toughest for last; despite the fact that she tended to see him the most of any of them because of Isabel, she still didn't claim to understand him. But memories of many times she'd seen him organizing gigs and herding the others and making sure their performances ran smoothly, how he'd decided to confront Mrs. Evans on Isabel's behalf rose up in her mind--he was the big brother, the leader. She knew that much for sure.

"Mike is its strength," she said firmly. "He's not afraid to take on as much responsibility as--and sometimes more than--his shoulders can bear. When he told you Isabel was his responsibility now, he meant it."

Margaret Evans listened silently, and when Mags had finished, her eyes grew distant and unfocused as if she were deep in thought. At last she met Mags' eyes once more, and she continued in a much quieter tone.

"Do you think they'll last, or is it just a puppy love crush?" 

_That was easy enough to answer_! Mags thought with some amusement. "I think they could face Hell together and come out the other side unscathed," she replied with every ounce of conviction she possessed.

"This hasn't shaken their relationship?" Mrs. Evans asked almost hopefully.

"No," Mags answered resolutely. "Far from it. They're closer than ever. He's supporting her as much as he can."

"Even though he knows she's practically penniless now?" Her voice was full of scorn and disbelief, but Mags hastened to defend them both.

"He's never thought her to be otherwise," she retorted hotly. "Isabel hasn't told him anything. He loves _her_ , not the connections you have or the money you could have left her. The disinheritance didn't change anything as far as he was concerned." 

Once more, Margaret Evans fell silent, and Mags waited with growing impatience for her to say or ask something. When she spoke again, the resulting command was hardly what Mags had expected.

"Send him in to me."

~*~*~ 

Margaret Evans watched from beneath hooded eyes the young man standing poised on the threshold, noting the arrogant tilt of his chin, the way his lips thinned into a line of displeasure when he saw her, the confidence of his stride as he entered the room. Oh, he was a proud one, she chuckled silently. It would be amusing to knock him down a peg or two.

"What have you to say to me?" she demanded brusquely, not bothering to waste time or courtesy on him.

He stopped a few feet from her chair and gazed down at her unwaveringly, appearing unfazed by her blunt rudeness. "I came to ask you for something," he replied, his voice neutral, giving away nothing.

Ah, there it was, she thought with grim satisfaction. Here is where he would plead for her to restore Isabel's inheritence, or he would try to negotiate a pay-off. Well, she thought with a mental shrug, if the amount he asked for wasn't too exhorbitant, she would consider giving it to him. It would be worth it to get him out of her grand-daughter's life.

"I want you to make up with Isabel," he said.

"Reclaim her as my heir, you mean," she snorted, but to her surprise, the young man shook his head.

"No, that's _not_ what I mean." He hooked his thumbs in his belt loops and gave her a disapproving look. "If you want to cut her out of your will, that's fine with me, but don't cut her out of your life," he continued, and she found herself staring at him, shocked into silence. "You're the only blood kin she's got left, and you pushin her away like this has hurt her more than she'll ever knowingly let on to either one of us. I don't like seein her in this much pain, especially when I know you're just punishin her because you don't like me. That isn't fair."

"And what would you say is fair?" she asked coldly. "Restoring her to her former position as my sole heir, giving her back the fortune she once had the opportunity to possess?"

"This isn't about her inheritance!" he exclaimed. "She doesn't care about it, and neither do I. All I want is for her to be happy, and she won't be happy as long as you won't talk to her."

The look on his face clearly said he couldn't fathom the reason why Isabel's happiness depended on contact with her grandmother, and she had no doubt only an innate sense of manners and the knowledge that blowing up at her wouldn't help his case were the only factors standing in the way of him launching into a vitriolic tirade at her. 

"A very noble sentiment," she replied, not bothering to keep the scorn from her tone. "Very pretty words. But I have no guarantee that you mean any of it."

"No, you don't," he agreed. "That's why I'm not askin you to put her back in your will. Leave your money to charity if you don't trust me. Or write up a contract that says I can't ever touch a penny of Isabel's money. I'll sign it. I'll do whatever it takes to get you and Isabel back on good terms--except leave her," he added, as if he were anticipating her reaction.

"You wouldn't sacrifice your relationship with her even if it meant she was permanently cut off from me?"

"No." His dark eyes turned flinty with determination, and Margaret felt the first stirrings of respect for this strong-willed young man. "The only person who can tell me to get out of Isabel's life is Isabel herself. Til she does, I'm stayin with her. Whether she's rich or poor, I'm stayin. _You_ have no control over that. It's her choice, not yours."

"You really have no idea of the full scope of Isabel's financial background, have you?" she mused, almost more to herself than him. 

He shrugged negligently. "She told me she saved the money you used to send her every month and she has a trust fund from her parents. Beyond that, I don't know or care. It's her business, not mine. She can do what she wants to with it, but I won't let her use it to support me. I said I wouldn't marry her til I could afford to support a family myself, and I meant it."

"How am I believe you?" she barked, clenching the arms of her chair tightly. "Who are you but poor white trash who has dared to lay his hands on my grand-daughter?"

If she had hoped to reduce him to quivering submission with that harsh statement, her plan went awry; she pushed his buttons, but not the ones she intended.As she watched, she saw his entire body growing tense with suppressed anger, his hand closing into fists by his sides as he glared fiercely down at her.

"I may be poor white trash to you," he growled, his voice low and intense, "but I've got more respect for Isabel than to force myself on her like that snake in the grass you want her with so bad."

"What?" she gasped, one hand flying to her chest. "Lindsay is from one of the finest families in Harker's Ferry! He's an honorable young man--"

"So honorable that he attacked Isabel twice!" he interrupted. "Once right here in this house. The only thing that stopped him was your butler there walkin in, and then he lied and said she was willin. She never said otherwise 'cause she was scared you wouldn't believe her. She was sure you'd take his word over hers. The second time was just yesterday when he showed up at her place. But she defended herself and called us to throw him out." He paused, appearing to all but vibrate with seething rage as he spat out one final condemnation. "If that's your idea of honoróif that's the kind of man you want Isabel with, no wonder she couldn't wait to get outta here. I said what I came here to say. Whether you believe it or not is up to you. It's your decision now."

With that, he pivoted sharply on his heel and stalked out, leaving her alone to absorb this startling news.

~*~*~ 

"You're...you're not mad at Izzy for not telling you about all this, are you?" Mags asked hesitantly.

Mike had been driving in grim-faced silence for miles, his fingers clutching the steering wheel in a white-knuckled grip, and Mags had decided to avoid asking any questions about how his discussion with Mrs. Evans had gone. From all appearances, she would guess not well. But she couldn't refrain from asking that one question at least.

"No." His response was terse, but Mags sensed that the anger simmering just beneath the outwardly calm surface was not directed at her or at Isabel. "No, I ain't mad. I feel sorry for her." He drew in a deep breath, his rigid posture relaxing marginally. "If it'd been me, I would've gotten the hell out as soon as I could too. Money or not, that ain't no way to live."

"Darn right," Mags agreed softly.

They rode back to the Pad without exchanging another word, both lost in their own thoughts.

~*~*~ 

"You think it's cooked enough?" Peter stared uncertainly at the slices of chicken breast sizzling in the skillet, and Isabel peered around him to check for herself.

She had agreed to teach Peter how to make an easy recipe for fettucine alfredo with chicken, and she'd dropped by the Pad immediately after work to begin the lesson. "It's browning...Why don't you cut a piece and see if it's still pink inside?" she suggested, retrieving a small kitchen knife from the counter and handing it to him.

Just then the front door opened; she and Peter both glanced up to see Mike burst in, glancing around the room as if he were searching for something. Peter's welcoming smile turned into a look of confusion when Mike spotted Isabel and made a beeline straight for her, seeming oblivious that anyone else was around even though Peter was standing mere inches away from her. As soon as he reached her side, Mike caught her around the waist and hoisted her up into a tight bearhug; she gasped as much from surprise as from lack of air at suddenly finding herself dangling at least a foot off the floor and having the breath squeezed out of her by his unexpectedly vehement embrace.

Peter wisely--and silently--returned to browning the chicken, and he was forgotten by both of them as she wrapped her arms around Mike's neck, enjoying the attention while it lasted. Even after he lowered her so that her feet were on solid ground again, he didn't release her; instead, he bent so that he could still hold her, keeping one arm firmly around her waist as he slid his other hand up to tangle in her hair.

"Mike...?" she whispered at last, curiosity getting the better of her. "Is something wrong?"

"Not anymore," he replied, a ragged edge in his voice.

Sudenly he straightened, putting both hands on her shoulders and pushing her away just enough so he could look at her, his dark eyes boring with almost frightening intensity into hers. "You're not gonna be alone. You know that, right? Even if your grandmother doesn't ever change her mind, you've still got me. You're always going to have meó"

"And me," Peter added softly, placing the knife on the counter and wrapping his arms around her from behind.

"Micky and Davy too," Mike said. "We're your family now, and we're not gonna let you down. We're always gonna be here for you, no matter what. You know that, don't you?" he asked, his tone and expression so earnest that she hastened to assure him.

"Yesóyes, I know," she replied soothingly. "I know. I've felt that way about you guys too for a long time now."

"Good." He hugged her again, this time reaching out one arm to include Peter, who shot him a startled glance before moving so he could slip his arm around Mike's shoulders, the three of them forming a small circle there in the kitchen. "I don't ever want you feelin like you haven't got anybody."

"I don't!" she replied fervidly. "Not now. Now anymore. Mike--what's going on? Why are you telling me this?"

"It doesn't matter," he sighed, closing his eyes and leaning his cheek against the top of her head. "Just don't ever forget it."

"I won't." She slanted a puzzled look up at him. "After this random bit of weirdness, I couldn't if I wanted to." But inside, she felt a measure of peace stealing over her soul such as she hadn't felt since her grandmother's visit, and she relaxed, enjoying the tranquility of knowing she was among friends--among family--and that she was loved. No matter what.

~*~*~ 

"Thanks for helping me do this," Isabel said, bending to dip her brush in the paint can again. "I want to get finished before Mags comes home so it'll be a surprise."

Not having expected to need the spare upstairs bedroom, she had put off repainting the room even though the dingy walls desperately needed it, but now that Mags was going to be living there--perhaps for quite a while--she felt the urge to get the job done. Thus she'd talked the guys into helping her move the furniture out of the room that morning, then she and Mike planned to spend the afternoon painting while Mags was visiting her older sister for the day. 

"We can make it," Mike replied confidently.

Glancing over at him, she noticed that his face was scrunched in a slight frown of concentration as he smoothed the white paint along the floorboard, covering the old yellowing paint with each new stroke. They had both worn some of their oldest clothes, garments they wouldn't mind tossing if necessary after the task was finished, and she found her gaze constantly straying to the sight of him in a pair of faded jeans that fit him like a second skin and with a hole in the knee that begged to be explored. How was she supposed to get any work done with that cute little behind distracting her?

He looked so serious as he painted, exercising his usual meticulous care with the job, and a sudden spark of mischief flared up in her. A wicked smile curved her lips as she lay down the heavy, thick brush she was using and picked up the smaller, finer bristled brush she had used for painting around the floorboard. Dipping it in her paint, she scraped off the excess and sauntered over to where he was crouched.

"Mike..."

"Hhmm?" He seemed distracted as he glanced up at her, obviously not suspecting a thing--and then she ran her paintbrush down the length of his nose, giggling all the while. "You little--!"

He lunged and grabbed at her, but she danced backwards out of reach, laughing outright. Scrambling to his feet, he chased her across the room, and she dropped her brush and fled, half-laughing and half-shrieking as she did.

"No!" she protested as he grabbed up one of the big brushes and took after her with it."Mike--don't you dare!"

"Too late," he mock-growled, stalking her slowly, making sure he kept between her and the door. "You asked for it, little girl."

"Oh, c'mon!" She shook her head in vehemently denial. "You look s-so much b-better now!" She tried to keep a straight face, but seeing him--that deadly earnest expression combined with the white streak down his nose--only set her off again even though she knew collapsing in helpless laughter wouldn't help her escape.

"Then you're gonna be a beauty queen by the time I get through with you," he retorted.

In the wrestling match that ensued, he dropped the brush, and they both reached for it and lost it, leaving them both with paint-covered hands; finally catching her around the waist from behind as she made a mad dash for the door, he pulled her tight against him and ran his paint coated fingers down the side of her face, leaving white stripes along her right cheek.

"Eeeww!" She tried to wriggle loose, but he clasped her even more firmly, and she could feel as well as hear him laughing.

"Payback," he murmured in her ear, leaning over to brush a quick kiss on her clean cheek.

She blew a raspberry, but she stopped trying to get free; instead, she nestled in his arms, smiling with contentment, and he cradled her gently, resting his cheek against her hair as they stood together, just enjoying being close for a moment before going back to work. 

Abruptly the sound of a throat being cleared brought them back to reality, and they snapped their heads up, shooting identical curious glances in the direction of the bedroom door. Isabel half-way expected to see Micky standing there, but she felt the blood drain from her face as she looked up to see her grandmother in the doorway. 

"The front door was unlocked, and your car was in the driveway," Gram said without preamble. "I took that to mean you were home."

"Well..." Isabel replied faintly. "I am..."

What was she supposed to say? It had been two weeks since her grandmother had disinherited her and stormed out of her house, vowing never to return, and yet now here she was--unexpected and uninvited. 

"I wish to speak with you, Mary Isabel," Gram announced, remaining in the doorway, her hands folded in front of her.

Mike released Isabel and stepped away. "I'll go downstairs--"

"No." Gram raised one hand, fixing him with a stern look. "What I have to say concerns you as well. You may stay."

"Thanks." His tone was so drenched with irony and sarcasm that Isabel elbowed him sharply, not wanting to antagonize Gram so soon in the conversation.

"What did you want to say?" she asked, keeping her voice carefully neutral. That Gram had changed her mind was a faint hope lurking in the back of her mind, but she wasn't counting on it.

"Your young man put aside his pride long enough to make a plea on your behalf," she said. "Now it is my turn to bend."

"He did _what_?" Isabel demanded, turning enough that she could fix him with an astonished stare. "When did you--?" A memory suddenly rose up in her mind--the day a little over a week ago when Mike had returned to the Pad and exhibited an unusual amount of emotion in front of Peter no less. "Ah ha..."

"Yep." He didn't bother trying to deny it. "I went to Harker's Ferry, and your grandmother and I had a little talk."

"You didn't tell her?" Gram asked, appearing surprised.

"No," he replied brusquely. "I didn't want to upset her more or get her hopes up for no reason."

Gram inclined her head slightly in acknowledgement before speaking again. "Mary Isabel, I have decided that perhaps my original assessment of your young man needs...modification."

Isabel felt her lower jaw hit the floor, and she snapped it shut quickly, swallowing hard as her brain suddenly packed up and flew off to Rio, leaving her stranded there, speechless.

"He has a name," she said, finding her voice at last.

"Very well," Gram replied in a surprisingly amiable tone. "Perhaps my original assessment of _Michael_ needs modification."

"Would you care to tell me what led you to this conclusion?" she asked, trying to keep herself outwardly calm while inside she was screaming and shouting and turning cartwheels. Could this possibly mean she wouldn't ever have to feel like she was in the middle between them again?

"That's none of your affair, Miss," Gram retorted tartly. "Suffice to say I still think he's a long-haired rebel who ought to settle down and get a real job, but I have a different opinion of his intentions where you're concerned."

Behind her, Mike bristled, but Isabel simply pressed one hand to her forehead, feeling as if she ought to sit down after that shock; she hadn't expected to hear those words out of Gram's mouth anytime soon, if at all...

"Well...good..." she said lamely.

"I still have no intention of restoring you as my heir," Gram continued as if Isabel weren't gaping at her like a fish on land. "Yet. I wish to assure myself that he is what he presents himself to be. Time will tell. But in the meantime, I have no wish for us to be estranged any longer." She paused, her expression softening for the first time since she had entered the room. "It would seem I acted in haste, and I have much cause to regret it. Can you forgive me?"

Isabel hesitated a mere fraction of a second--just long enough to assure herself that she had indeed heard what she thought she'd heard--and then she flew across the room, both arms outstretched to her grandmother, who looked askance at paint-covered grandchild at first, but apparently she decided to ignore decorum for a moment even if it meant getting besmirched.

"Of course I do!" she exclaimed as she hugged her grandmother. "I don't care about the will--all I want is for you to love me again." 

"I _do_ love you," Gram assured her, returning her embrace with warmth and affection. "I never stopped." She held Isabel at arms'-length, fixing her with a somber look. "I only want the best for you, Mary Isabel. I want you to be happy."

"I _am_ happy," Isabel assured her gently. "Living here, working here makes me happy. Mike makes me happy, and as hard as it may be for you to believe it, he _is_ what's best for me."

"Well..." Gram released a resigned sigh. "I hope he never gives you cause to regret those words. For now, I am satisfied." She clasped Isabel tight once more before releasing her. "I had thought to take you to dinner, but you're busy and in no condition to go out." She glanced down at herself and the pale smudges on her dark blue dress. "And now neither am I. Perhaps another time."

"I'd like that," she replied, feeling tears stinging her eyes. "I'd like that a lot."

"Good." Gram nodded, then she regarded Mike coolly. "I trust you will not forget your responsibility."

"Never," he replied firmly, matching her look for look, and Isabel realized with a sinking heart that while a _detante_ had somehow been negotiated between Mike and Gram, the war was far from over. 

With that, Gram exchanged one last fond good-bye with Isabel and departed. As soon as the bedroom door closed behind her grandmother, Isabel turned to Mike, her expression incredulous.

"Am I dreaming, or did that really just happen?"

"It happened," he replied, and even though his voice was calm, she could see delight shining in his eyes as he looked at her.

Her joy was so great that she scarcely knew what to do with herself; she felt as if her body was too small to contain the happiness exploding within her, and she felt the sudden urge to dance around the room. Instead, needing some sort of outlet for her agitation, she darted over to retrieve her paintbrush, laughter bubbling on her lips as she dipped it in the paint again--and then flicked it at him, liberally spattering him with tiny white speckles. 

"Can you believe it?" she exclaimed, ignoring his outraged sputtering. "She actually apologized to me! And she's accepted you--well, sort of--and she's speaking to me again! All thanks to you!"

"And this is the way you repay me?" he grumbled, swiping ineffectually at the droplets on his tee shirt and bare arms. "It's not just me," he added. "Mags helped."

"Then I owe you both," she said, dropping the brush once more and, flinging her arms around his waist, squeezed him tight enough to make him gasp. "Thank you," she added softly, gazing up at him with her heart in her eyes. "There aren't words to tell you how much this means to me."

He cupped her cheek in the palm of his hand, caressing her skin gently with his thumb. "Your grandmother and I may never see eye-to-eye, but there _is_ one thing we'll always agree on. We both want you to be happy."

"I am," she replied, snuggling against him, paint and all. "Now that I have you and Gram both in my life again, I couldn't ask for anything more."

"Yep--there's one thing," he said, and she tilted her head up to give him a quizzical look.

"Really? What?"

Instead of answering, he suddenly scooped her up in his arms, and she let out a startled shriek of protest when she realized he was heading for the paint buckets again--and then he swirled his fingers in the thick liquid and slung it all over her, liberally coating her from head to toe.

"Paint remover," he said, not bothering to keep the smug tone out of his voice.


End file.
